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Princess Theatre.

If anything in the form of hearty, unaffected, unanimous applause can reward a manager for years of unremitting toil and exertion, Mr. Chirles Kean must have deemed himself amply remunerated, as far as his feelings were concerned, by the extraordinary scene that took place at the Princess's last night, when, at the conclusion of Henry VIII., he formally took leave of the public, for whose amusement and instruction he has so munificently provided during nine successive seasons. In attempting to describe it, we can only use the ordinary commonplaces of a house “crammed to suffocation,” of “waving hats and handkerchiefs,” of “reiterated cheers.” To give any notion of the strong feeling that manifested itself through all these visible signs of enthusiasm would be absolutely impossible. One spirit animated the mass that filled every available part of the edifice and rendered the lobbies impassable, although infinitely reduced by countless rejections for “want of room,” and that spirit was a sentiment of real gratitude and admiration. The great magician who had so long made his small theatre a mirror, in which the mighty events of the past were reflected with an accuracy that had never before been attempted, was breaking his wand in the presence of his admirers, and there was something almost painful in the excitement which the spectacle produced.

We could easily fill a couple of columns with the history of Mr. Charles Kean's vigorous and successful exertions to maintain a taste for the poetical drama, at a period when “Shakspeare” was voted “slow.” But we have too recently described his managerial career at the Princess's Theatre to render a repetition necessary, and at this moment our readers would doubtless rather peruse Mr. Charles Kean's own account of his principles and practice, as contained in the speech which we give below, than con over a frigid narrative of events generally known. But, as aids to the memory, we may mention the names of some of his grand “revivals”—his Macbeth, his Sardanapalus, his Winter's Tale, his Henry VIII., his Richard II., his Henry V., and a brilliant series of living historical pictures will at once pass before the mind. That anything like those grand works will again be presented on the boards of any London theatre there is not the slightest reason to expect, for that another manager will be found combining histrionic genius, disinterested zeal for art an enthusiastic love of archæology, and (let us add) pecuniary resources gained by honourable toll, to the degree in which these have been manifested in Mr. Charles Kean, is not to be anticipated. Neither can we point to any living actor who has the slightest chance of succeeding him as the acknowledged representative of the leading characters of Shakspeare, or of approximating to his matchless Louis XI. We have theatres in abundance for the performance of prose dramas of every degree of pretension; but the termination of Mr. Charles Kean's management of the Princess's Theatre can only be regarded as a calamity by all who class among the purposes of the stage the diffusion of a taste for the gigantic dramatic literature of this country. The great tragedian of his day having ceased to be a manager, the drama has lost its chief temple, and in the place of the Shakspearian theatre which had become one of the fixed institutions of the metropolis is a gap which no speculator would—as far as we can see—attempt to fill. The bond that connected together the fashion of our modern metropolis with the poetry that delighted our ancestors has ceased to exist, and the suburbs alone afford a home to the works of the Elizabethan era.

Mr. Kean delivered the speech which we give below in an impressive, unaffected manner, occasionally interrupted by emotion, which was especially manifest when he alluded to the devotion of Mrs. Kean, and when he approached the last words which he was to address to his audience. 0002 Applause was loud at every period, and the cogent reasonings with which he refuted the absurd attempts frequently made to oppose his system of decoration elicited shouts of approving laughter. A call from every throat at the end of the speech for Mrs. O. Kean, who was led on by her husband, completed one of the most imposing ovations ever beheld within the walls of a theatre.

The following is the speech:—

“Ladies and Gentlemen,—This night concludes my managerial career. The good ship which I have commanded for nine years, through storm and sunshine, calm and tempest, is now about to re-enter harbour, and, in nautical phrase, to be paid off; its able and efficient crew dispersed, soon, however, to be recommissioned under a new captain, to sail once more, as I sincerely hope, on a prosperous voyage. It is always painful to bid adieu to those with whom we have been associated long and intimately; how deeply, then, must I feel this moment of separation from my constant supporters—patrons, friends—never to meet again under the same relative circumstances. You have accompanied me through seasons of incessant toil and intense anxiety, but your encouragement has lightened my labours, and your approbation has compensated me for manifold difficulties and disappointments. I may, perhaps, be expected on an occasion like the present to make some allusions to the principles of management I have invariably adopted. I have always entertained the conviction that in illustrating the great plays of the greatest poet who ever wrote for the advantage of man, historical accuracy might be so blended with pictorial effect that instruction and amusement would go hand in hand, and that the more completely such a system was carried out so much more valuable and impressive would be the lesson conveyed. In fact, I was anxious to make the theatre a school as well as a recreation, and the reception given to the plays thus submitted to your judgment, combined with the unprecedented number of their repetitions, bear, I think, conclusive evidence that my views were not altogether erroneous. I find it impossible to believe, as some have asserted, that because every detail is studied with an eye to truth, such a plan can in the most remote degree detract from the beauties of the poet. My admiration—I may say adoration—of Shakspeare would never have allowed me to do that which I could possibly conceive would be detrimental to his mighty genius, nor can I suppose that this great master would have been more highly esteemed had I been less correct in the accessories by which I surrounded him. I would venture to ask if, in the play of this evening, you have lost one jot of the dramatic interest, because in the ball-room at York-place, and at the Queen's trial at Blackfriars, every incident introduced is closely adopted from the historical descriptions recording those very events as they actually occurred above 300 years ago? I would ask, I repeat, whether the fall of Wolsey has been thereby rendered less effective, or the death of Katherine less solemn and pathetic? I would also venture to add, that I do not think you would have been more impressed with the address of King Henry V. to his army at Agincourt, had it been delivered to a scanty few, incorrectly attired and totally undisciplined, instead of a well-trained mass of men representing the picture of a real host, clothed and accoutred in the exact costume and weapons of the time. I remember that when I produced the Winter's Tale as a Greek play—that is, with Greek dresses, Greek customs, and Greek architecture—an objection was raised by some that, although the scene was situated at Syracuse, then a Greek colony, whose King consults the celebrated Oracle of Delphi, yet the play was said to be essentially English, and ought to be so presented, because allusions in various parts bore reference to this country and to the period when the author wrote. You would, perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, have been somewhat astonished and perplexed to have seen the chest containing the answer of the Greek Oracle to the Greek King, supposed to have been delivered above 2,000 years ago, borne upon the stage by the Beefeaters of Queen Elizabeth,—you would, perhaps, have been equally surprised to have witnessed at this theatre Leontes as a Greek King, in the last act, attired as Hamlet, Prince of Denmark; and yet such an incongruity was accepted within the last 20 years. I have been blamed for depriving Macbeth of a dress never worn at any period or in any place, and for providing him instead with one resembling those used by the surrounding nations with whom the country of this chieftain was in constant intercourse. Fault was also found In my removal of the gorgeous banquet and its gold and silver vessels, together with the massive candelabras (such as no highlander of the 11th century 0003 ever gazed upon), and with the substitution of the more appropriate feast of coarse fare, served upon rude tables, and lighted by simple pine torches; I was admonished that such diminution of regal pomp impaired the strength of Macbeth's motive for the crime of murder, the object being less dazzling and attractive. Until that hour I had never believed that the Scottish thane had an eye to King Duncan's plate. I had imagined that lofty ambition, the thirst of power, and the desire of supreme command, developed themselves with equal intensity in the human heart, whether their scene of action might be the place of an European monarch or the wigwam of an American Indian. In the tragedy of Macbeth I was condemned for removing splendour that was utterly out of place; while in Henry VII. I was equally condemned for its introduction, where it was in place and in perfect accordance with the time and situation. I was told I might be permitted to present a true picture of ancient Assyria in Lord Byron's play of Sardanapalus, account must I attempt to be equally correct in Shakspeare's Macbeth. That drama must remain intact with all its time-honoured conventional improprieties. What would the poet gain, and how much would the public lose, by the perpetuation of such absurdities? Why should I present to you what I know to be wrong, when it is in my power to give what I know to be right? If, as it is sometimes affirmed, my system is injurious to the poet, it must be equally so to the actor, and surely my most determined opponents will admit that, at least, I have pursued a very disinterested policy in thus incurring for many years so much labour and expense for the purpose of professional suicide. Had I been guilty of ornamental introductions for the mere object of show and idle spectacle, I should assuredly have committed a grievous error; but, ladies and gentlemen, I may safely assert that in no single instance have I ever permitted historical truth to be sacrificed to theatrical effect. As a case in point let me refer to the siege of Harfleur, as presented on this stage. It was no ideal battle, no imaginary fight; it was a correct representation of what actually had taken place—the engines of war, the guns, banners, fireballs, the attack and defence, the barricades at the breach, the conflagration within the town, the assault and capitulation, were all taken from the account left to us by a priest who accompanied the army as an eyewitness, and whose Latin MS Is now in the British Museum. The same may be said of the episodes in Henry V. and Richard II.; indeed, whatever I have done has been sanctioned by history, to which I have adhered in every minute particular. To carry out this system the cost has been enormous—far too great for the limited arena in which it was incurred. As a single proof I may state that in this little theatre, where 200l is considered a large receipt, and 250l an extraordinary one, I expended in one season alone a sum little short of 50,000l. During the run of some of the great revivals, as they are called, I have given employment, and consequently weekly payment, to nearly 550 persons, and if you take into calculation the families dependent upon these parties, the number I have thus supported may be multiplied by four. Those plays, from the moment they first suggested themselves to my mind, until their production, occupied about a twelvemonth in preparation. In improvements and enlargements to this building to enable the representation of these Shaksperian plays I have expended about 3,0001. This amount may, I think, be reckoned at or above 10,000l. when I include the additions made to the general stock, all of which, by the terms of my lease, I am bound (with the exception of our own personal wardrobe) unconditionally to leave behind me on my secession from management I mention these facst simply as evidence that I was far more actuated by an enthusiastic lore of my art than by any expectation of personal emolument. Having said thus much, I need not deny that I have been no gainer, in a commercial sense; more restricted notions, and a more parsimonious outlay, might, perhaps, have led to a very different result, but I couldn't be induced by such considerations to check my desire to do what I considered right, and what would in my opinion advance the best interests of my profession. Whatever loss I have sustained is amply recompensed by the favour you have bestowed upon my efforts. So far, indeed, from regretting the past, if I could recall the years gone by, with renewed health and strength, I would gladly undertake the same task again for a similar reward. I do not now retire from the direction of this theatre through any feeling of disappointment, but from the remembrance of the old adage “The pitcher goes often to the well, but the pitcher at last may be broken.” Mind and body require rest after such active exercise for nine years during the best period of life, and it could not be a matter of surprise if I sunk under a continuance of the combined duties of actor and manager of a theatre where everything has grown into gigantic proportions; indeed, I should long since have succumbed had I not been sustained and seconded by the indomitable energy and the devoted affection of my wife. You have only seen her in the fulfilment of her professional pursuits, and are therefore unable to estimate the value of her assistance and counsel. She was ever by my side in the hour of need, ready to revive my drooping spirits and to stimulate me to fresh exertion. I cannot allow this opportunity to pass without correcting an erroneous impression which has to some extent gone abroad, that, in retiring from management, I also contemplated retirement from the stage. I have neither announced, nor conceived such intention, but, on the contrary, I hope, if my life be spared, at least for a limited number of years, to appear as an actor. The necessity of fulfilling a long round of provincial engagements will cause a considerable time to elapse before I can again have an opportunity—should such an opportunity ever arise—of meeting my London friends; but, though far away, memory will constantly revert to the brilliant scenes I have witnessed here, and conjure up visions of the bright eyes, encouraging smiles, and gratulating voices which have so often cheered me on my course. I can never forget that whatever triumphs I may have achieved, whatever reputation I may have won, whatever I may have been enabled to accomplish towards the advancement of dramatic art, I owe to you, my best friends—to you the public Let me fondly cherish the hope that you will sometimes bestow a thought on the absent wanderer, and confiding in your sympathy and regard, I now respectfully and gratefully take my leave, bidding you—‘farewell, a long farewell‘“